


Winter Is Here

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 15:00:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10538847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: “The King wants you,” Robb rasped, his voice like a blizzard. The fight raged endlessly around them, men screaming and swords clashing, but Jon couldn’t hear any of it past the pounding of his heart. It was as if he was in a glass terrarium, unable to hear anything but Robb. Unable to see anything but his eyes.





	

“Winter is coming.” Jon Snow had grown up with those words, a constant litany echoing in the back of his mind everytime he saw the snow, or a Stark banner. The winter was coming, and it would be the longest, coldest one yet. The likes of which haven’t been seen in a thousand years. Jon had had the unfortunate experience of knowing just was nightmares were coming with the winter. He had fought them, and killed them. But not nearly enough. It wasn’t enough to even put a dent in their forces. 

“Winter is here,” he said, looking out over the wall, at the approaching horde of death and decay. It was a single dark mass, writhing and running, storming towards the wall. He knew it was only a matter of time before they breached it, or piled over each other to climb over it, as he had seen them do before. Jon made his way to the lift to descend the wall and join his men, wildlings and northerners alike. 

When the army of the dead did finally breach the wall, Jon charged, his men following. Countless wights fell to his sword, before a white walker finally came for him. He fought with the fury of someone with nothing left to lose, but he found himself unable to strike the killing blow when he came face to face with the creature, whose features were still just human enough to be recognizable. 

“Robb,” he breathed, disbelieving. His brother was dead by the Frey’s. Had been for months,  _ years _ . The walker said nothing, but there was recognition in his icy, glowing eyes. There was a scar at his neck, as if someone had tried to decapitate him.  _ Someone had, and they had succeeded.  _ The walker, it was not his brother, raised his hand to strike at Jon. Instead, he touched Jon’s cheek, his touch so cold it burned. Jon screamed, tried to pull away, but the walker held him by the hair with his other hand. 

All Jon could think was it’s not him, it can’t be him, but a knowing smile still curled his lips, as if he recognized Jon and knew exactly what he was thinking. The smile was cruel, crueller than his touch as it seared Jon’s flesh. The walker didn’t speak, just kept smiling and burning and pulling and Jon felt tears freezing on his eyelashes until they began to obscure his vision. Glimmering like stars among the dark lashes. 

“The King wants you,” Robb rasped, his voice like a blizzard. The fight raged endlessly around them, men screaming and swords clashing, but Jon couldn’t hear any of it past the pounding of his heart. It was as if he was in a glass terrarium, unable to hear anything but Robb. Unable to see anything but his eyes. Those were not the eyes of his brother, not anymore, they were the eyes of a monster. A monster he was supposed to kill, that he  _ had  _ to kill, he was the  _ only one _ , no one else had a sword of valyrian steel. But he  _ couldn’t _ . He couldn’t bring his sword up, his arm hanging limp at his side, sword barely held in his grip that was growing more lax by the second. 

Robb’s smile turned gruesome, lips pulled back to bare his teeth, and Jon tried to pull away, he tried so hard but he couldn’t, not with Robb’s hand in his hair or at his throat, squeezing and squeezing until he almost couldn’t breathe anymore, the cold air freezing inside his lungs. 

“Let me go,” he pleaded, grabbing at Robb’s arm with his free hand in a feeble attempt to pull Robb’s hand away from his throat so that he could breathe. Robb didn’t budge, instead tightening his grip further until Jon was gasping. He leaned forward to press his cold, dry lips to Jon in a burning kiss. Jon tried to turn away but Robb wouldn’t let him, holding him still as the cold seeped into his bones and his vision went hazy, fracturing as if he was looking through a thousand shards of ice. He knew that his eyes were no longer brown, but the same cold blue of Robb’s. 

It hurt it, it burned, he couldn’t move, his body was becoming numb in the cold that possessed every part of him, and still Robb didn’t let up. Not even when his lungs were burning from the lack of oxygen, or when he felt himself beginning to go limp, the battle fading around him and a soft darkness drifting in at the corners of his vision. Distantly, he thought he could hear someone calling his name.

Then, suddenly, where Robb had one stood there was nothing cut a cascade of snow and ice that tore as Jon’s exposed skin as it flew outward. He was falling forward, his lungs filling with air, and it burned just as much as Robb’s kiss had but it felt so good to be able to breathe in gulps of air until his head was spinning it it. He could hear someone calling his name for real this time, shouting it in his head and holding him close, to keep him from falling to the ground and being trampled. 

“Robb,” he said, voice like cracking ice, and he didn’t even know what he was saying, really, what he was asking for. His vision began to clear, the dark fading away, and instead it was filled with red hair. “Robb,” he said again, desperately, reaching out, but no, that wasn’t Robb. His hair was a darker red than the red before him, auburn, the color of blood on the horizon. His hand was being slapped away and he was being suddenly shaken, before a felt a blade at his throat; the sleep edge of Longclaw. When had he let go of his sword, when had it been taken away from him?

“Pull yourself together, crow,” Tormund growled at him, and jon knew he was lost but when had he lost himself? What could have only been seconds, perhaps even minutes, felt akin to ages.”That still you in there, Jon?” he asked, and Jon didn’t know. He couldn’t see his eyes. Were they brown again, or were they the blue of shattered ice? 

“I don’t know,” he said, bracing himself on Tormund’s shoulders. He felt the kiss of Longclaw at his neck, still, delicate as it sliced through his flesh. He felt the blood bead up and slide down his neck, before the sword was finally pulled away from him. 

“It’s you,” Tormund said, his voice having an air of finality to it. Jon didn’t know how he wildling could believe so fully that he was indeed himself, and not some pawn of the Night King. But then he was being handed his sword and he plunged it into the first wight he saw coming at Tormund’s back and knew that no, he was not a mindless slave, he was Jon Snow. If he knew nothing else, he knew who he was. 

Tormund looked at him with that feral grin of his, and it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew that he would have to talk about what happened when all was said and done, if they survived. But he wasn’t ready to face that just yet. He didn’t think he ever would be. But it didn’t matter because that was tomorrow’s battle. 

For now, he brandished his sword and rejoined the fray, Tormund at his back. And if his lips still burned, he told himself it was from the cold of the North, even as he could still feel Robb’s hand around his throat and in his hair. 

**Author's Note:**

> No, there is no way Robb could have become a white walker but shhh, let me dream.


End file.
